


Tears Fall Like Rain

by consultingcumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depressed John, Drug Abuse, Heavy Angst, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, depressed!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:49:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7729204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingcumberbatch/pseuds/consultingcumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there were two men; one dying and one already dead. Or, as John hazily discovers, maybe not as dead as he thought...but not alive soon enough to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears Fall Like Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This story is largely centred around a serious abuse of drugs and death. If you're not good with that kind of stuff, I'd suggest you hit the back button now.
> 
> "Tell me why my tears fall like rain?  
> Tore me to pieces, nothing else remains  
> Tell me why my tears fall like rain?"  
> -Eric Clapton

John gazed at the floor. Tears swum in his eyes like the stars. His breath rasped, audible to his own ears. Memories assaulted him like a battering ram against his mind, surrounding him. The air was crisp and stinging with cold, the stillness grating against him like a rusty knife. Shivering, John rolled his shoulders and winced, his shoulder twinging. The needle in his hand felt like dead weight. Breathing hard, he wondered who would find him.

No matter.

He'd be with Sherlock soon enough.

* * *

 

His phone blared. Ignoring it, Sherlock paced around the confines of his room, steepling his fingers under his chin. His hands couldn’t keep still, the tail of his dressing gown flapping lifelessly around in the dusty air. Mycroft had ensured that this house was far from anyone who’d deal Sherlock any kind of drug, no matter the legality. Letting loose an agonised groan, he drew every book from the oak bookcase and threw them on to the floor, eyes wild.

" _Where_ have you hidden my cigarettes!" he exclaimed to silence, after the infernal ringing of the phone had ceased. Inhaling, he savoured the silence once more.

The cutting sound of his ringtone jarred him out of his reverie a few seconds later. Sighing and rolling his eyes, Sherlock perused his cramped desk for the device. His skull lay abandoned on top of a rickety pile of papers, useless to him. It was no substitute for John.

Sherlock exhaled loudly as he answered the call. "Mycroft. I’d imagined that even someone as pompous as you might refrain from calling me multiple times."

Not deigning a response to the churlish insult, Mycroft paused for a second. "Brother, you know as well as I do that my time is precious. This is about John."

Though no-one was around to observe it, Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction. He swallowed and licked his lips, eyes darting around the room. Standing a little straighter, he spoke at last. "What of him? Is he still with that abhorrent Mary woman? How much overtime has he been working at the clinic? Have his nightmares subsided? When will I be able to see him?"

The words that came in reply pierced the air like a knife slipping through his ribs. "You might consider revisiting St Bartholomew's soon."

* * *

 

"John? Are you in there? It's Greg. I've got that copy of the Gatsby film that you wanted!" Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes. He'd wanted to go home after the case with the postman, but bloody Mycroft Holmes had insisted that he check up on John for god knows what reason. He banged on the wooden door of 221B, not getting a response.

"Mrs Hudson must be out," he muttered to himself. Looking around the street edgily, he tried the door. Surprisingly, it was open. Letting himself in, Lestrade shut the door quietly and trod up the stairs briskly, wincing at the creaky step. He huffed at the last step before strolling through the door frame, frowning at the door’s peeling paint. His mouth open to joke about John being deaf only widened and fell at the sight that greeted him. “John?!”

John couldn't close his eyes. He knew he should, because he was wanted to sleep. For once, he thought thankfully, he was going to have a good sleep for away from visions of falling men and bullets flying from guns in Afghanistan. He wanted so desperately to close his eyes, but everything was bright and his mind was slowing and he couldn’t remember if he was lying down or sitting or standing _but soon he was going to see Sher-_

John's eyes lowered a fraction. A figure appeared before him, blocking the light like a human eclipse. Broad shoulders. Greying hair. Slack-jawed expression. A name floated somewhere in the distance, but John couldn't quite recall it. Not-Sherlock, he decided to call him. Laughter at himself spun around in his mind for some time. Even now he couldn’t use his brain properly, as Sherlock used to point out.

Groaning, John tried to close his eyes again. _Die die die die die die die die die die die die_ , he willed himself _. Sherlock soon Sherlock now Sherlock so close-_

"John?!" The voice was strange, the one syllable stretched out too long. The tenor sound reverberated through John's mind. A strangled cry was ripped from John's throat before not-Sherlock picked him up into his arms roughly and firmly carried him down the stairs and out the door, grunting at the weight. He silently cursed when his eyes flew open as the man jolted him just after he’d managed to finally close them. It was _mean_ to disturb someone while they were trying to sleep, wasn’t it?

Suddenly John was on the ground again, but now it was cold. The voice kept speaking, but John couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was hearing. He couldn’t see where his legs were either, but managed to curl his knees into his chest slowly and hug them to keep warm. Snuggling in, he sighed. Now if only he had a blanket.

Arms bundled around him again. Blinking, John wondered where the voice went. It didn’t matter much to him though; quiet made it much easier to fall asleep. Finally closing his eyes, his head lolled back and his knees fell away from their tuck as the man’s voice started to blast in his ear and then muffled into nothing.

* * *

 

"Drive  _faster_  damn it!" Sherlock yelled at one of Mycroft's silent chauffers. The smooth purr of the engine grew louder as the man’s driving quickened. They stopped for nothing, speeding through red lights as if they didn't exist. He collapsed back into the lush leather seating, tapping his foot relentlessly on the floor. The sights outside the tinted windows flew by faster than his thoughts could keep up. Mycroft's words echoed on in Sherlock's mind again and again, and each repetition felt like a punch thrown at his chest.

"John was seen in Soho earlier today. He returned to Baker Street an hour later and all appeared well. I asked Greg to check on him again in the afternoon on again, just in case." There was a slight pause there, his voice catching for a second. "He found John on the floor with a needle in his forearm. Unidentified substance. I'm sorry, brother."

What seemed like hours later, the dark car rolled out in front of the entrance to Bart’s. Lestrade’s figure stood outside, glancing worriedly at a cloudy evening sky. His face was gaunt and slack, the picture of a grieving friend. He closed his eyes, praying that John would be alright. The car's door opened, and a bone-thin, dark haired man leapt out and burst towards the entrance.

"Sherlock Holmes?! Is that you?!" Lestrade shouted, grabbing him by the wrist. He squinted at Sherlock, trying to see past the dark curls all over his face.  
  
There was no trace of a smile in Sherlock's eyes. "Lestrade," he said evenly.

"The fall and the funeral–" Lestrade swallowed and shook his head several times. He released the man’s wrist and buried his hands in his face as he stood rigidly, trying to force down waves of anger. Pulling Sherlock towards him by the coat caller, he growled in a lower voice. "You damn near killed John."

Their eyes fixed for moments before Lestrade’s softened in pity. Clearing his throat, Sherlock stepped away and walked towards the entrance of the hospital, leaving the man to stand alone. "Poor choice of words, Detective Inspector."

* * *

 

"I'm here to see John Watson." The words left in a tumble out of Sherlock's mouth. The lady at the reception desk raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's manic appearance, fingers tapping away on the desk and eyes wild.

"I'm sorry, sir. Visiting hours finished forty minutes ago. Please make an appointment for tomorrow."

"You don't understand." His voice grew low, adopting an anxious undertone. His forehead crinkled with worry. "I am not sure he'll  _be_  here tomorrow."

The woman's face was sympathetic. "I see. Let me see what I can do. What exactly is your connection to John Watson?"

Friend flatmate colleague workmate Afghanistan detective partner-in-crime  _boyfriend_.

Sherlock's face reddened slightly. He had never expected to admit his emotions for John to anyone but him, let alone to a receptionist in circumstances such as these. Strictly speaking, boyfriend wasn't truly accurate, but it would do for now. He and John could work out the details later, he was sure. "He's my...boyfriend," he said, stumbling over the word slightly.

The receptionist glanced upwards and scrutinised him for a second, before tearing off a slip of paper and giving him directions.

He tore off without a word of thanks.

* * *

 

The room was dark, the small light to his left comforting. The machines still beeped and whirred beside John, an IV drip on his hand. His eyes were barely open. The world was a blur, like someone had spilt water all across his vision and wiped it carelessly, unevenly.

_Sherlock._

The door opened and Sherlock was there. John knew that he should close his eyes now because this must be the end because Sherlock is here now Sherlock is–

"John." His voice was broken.

_Almost there so close Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock here friend here closer please close eyes John._

Sherlock stumbled over to the side of the bed. John's eyes followed his movements, drinking in the sight of him. He sat down, staring at his friend, his boyfriend.

"You have to get up, John." Sherlock's voice was like velvet, like the sun and the moon had melted together and existed in perfect harmony. But his eyes were filled with anguish. Why was that? Wasn’t he happy to see John?

_But Sherlock eyes closing why confused help exhausted now._

His hand found John's. It was still warm.

"I'm back now, John. Here to stay." His fingers intertwined with John's, and he smiled a tiny smile. "But now it's your turn to come back."

_Where come back confused Sherlock white light tired eyes closing help._

John's eyes were clouded. Sherlock squeezed his hand.

"I'm sorry I lied to you, John. I heard what you said, afterwards. At the grave."

_Grave remember sad angry tired eyes closing Sherlock here._

"You make me better.  _You_  are the hero. I was so alone and  _I_  am the one who owes you." Sherlock looked away for a second to stare at the ceiling. His eyes were wet, but he blinked back any tears.

_Tears sad help Sherlock no alive eyes very tired. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._

John turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock's face. He looked older, far older than he had before. And he was thin too, so thin. The sides of his mouth turned upwards in a wan smile as he squeezed Sherlock's hand ever so slightly.

"Sherlock," he whispered weakly. The man leaned in towards John, hope glowing in his eyes. Sherlock gripped his hand tighter, forcing a wince out of John. The look of alarm on his face would’ve been comical, if they’d been in any other situation.

_Love Sherlock alone alive so tired help eyes closing._

"Will you miss…me?" John's words were laboured, short breaths in the middle of his words.

"John," Sherlock spoke urgently, feeling his chest freeze and fear wash over him. "Don't say that. Never say that. You're not going! You're staying, with me, and alive. What am I supposed to do without my blogger?"

A weak laugh rasped into the sterile air. "Have to get…a new one, maybe," John said quietly, looking down.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock felt the lump in his throat. He shook his head repeatedly, unable to speak for a second. “No. Don’t–“

"Goodbye, Sherlock." The warm smile on John's face was his old, familiar one, and for a second Sherlock could pretend that this wasn't happening, that John was alright and John was home and Sherlock and John were going to be together and–

_Goodbye Sherlock eyes closing finished end finally peace rest._

John's chest fell, and didn't rise again.

The rain began to fall, and Sherlock's tears fell with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Bart's technically doesn't have an A&E department as far as I know, but for the purposes of the story I chose to have John sent there instead.


End file.
